


ten feet off the ground

by Anonymous



Series: oh, giraffes [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Alternative Universe - Magic, Blood, First Meetings, M/M, Plant Magic, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-27 07:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13876389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “Oh, my fucking asjdfljk—”





	ten feet off the ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dip_cheese](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dip_cheese/gifts).



> :O i hope you enjoy this!!!
> 
> thanks to hailey for betaing!!

It has never been that bad before.

Paul clutches his side, grimacing at the trickle of blood seeping through his jacket. He’s learned his lesson not to wear his favorite shit, but it’s impossible to repeat the mistake anyway. The jacket has to be unsalvageable now. Would his mom be suspicious if he stops wearing it? Paul hopes not.

At least the kid got away. Man, he thought the guys were just some dumb punks who wanted snack money. He really didn’t think that they’d pull out a  _ HemoKnife. _ All shallow cuts, but. Paul breathes. It’s not so bad that he has to go to the hospital. Maybe. Just his heavy duty first aid kit. But does his kit have a clay clotter? This night could’ve gone better.

Because it was supposed to be  _ his. _ Fuck, okay, okay. 

1) He’s strong, dammit. His muscles are bulked up from years of hockey and he’s no slacker during the off-season. 

2) He’s got  _ moves. _ He’s no idiot. He took a specialized kickboxing class, the one that teaches people to put some of their body’s magic into hits. As if he was going in unprepared to get his ass handed back to him. Guess, that happened regardless though. 

And 3). The biggest thing of all. He’s got  _ invisibility _ . Like actual invisibility. Not some bullshit people can try to magick up. Although, there was no difference tonight. How shitty it went. He was supposed to have it under  _ control _ . He already took his meds; it wasn’t supposed to be a problem.

But, no. Instead, as he nearly took those guys down while out of sight, his body went back in it. Out and in and out and in of sight. They got a hold on him pretty quick after that. He was lucky to escape with his mask on. When the sirens came.

Paul thinks back to three hours ago. How many pills did he take? He sees himself in the bathroom. Opening the drawer by the sink. There’s only one pill. He pops the lid and shakes out. Fuck. How many did he shake out? Paul sees one pull, then two, then three resting on his palm. And the numbers switch. One, three, five, two, four. He should’ve taken two and he sees that, but he doesn’t trust his memory. His hand rises, his head falls back, and then there’s the ceiling.

He shakes his head. He’ll worry about  _ that _ later. He’ll worry about that  _ later.  _ He has to. Paul looks down, sees his legs and hands disappearing every two seconds or so. He grits his teeth. Can his body make up its mind? Fucking whatever. There are weirder things than somebody who’s only there half the time. Just last week, everybody was going crazy about a lobster crawling through the streets.

Paul focuses on running—well, it’s down to speed walking now. He focuses on breathing. He focuses on  _ not bleeding out. _ And it’s like his mind is holding onto ropes that are tugging, tugging, tugging, and he’s nearly parallel to the ground. His cheeks are soaked with sweat and the condensation of his breaths.

He spies the street signs at the intersection.  _ Tenth and Huckleberry. _ Home’s not far then. If he can cut through the alleys, he should make it. But first, this. Paul shrugs off his jacket, wincing at the soreness of his shoulders and ties it around his chest. Looks dumb as hell, but the pressure should help. He staggers down the street until finally he finds a nook between a flower shop and an empty  _ For Lease _ space. The alley is barely big enough to house a dumpster, but he’ll take it. 

Paul sways— _ shit. _ He stops and places a hand on his knee. His face radiates from all the blood, from straining to stay up. He has to  _ go. _ He has to go  _ now. _ Paul bursts into a sprint and collapses two feet later. With mouth open, his face against the gravel, blood runs out from his inner cheek. He’s bitten it when he touched down. He hears something rolling behind him and turns his head. A flower pot. Oops.

Paul puts a fist to the ground, tries to push himself up, but his arms shakes and folds at the elbow. He’s. He’s so  _ cold.  _ Paul tries again. He digs his fingers, pulling himself farther in. In the dark, the buildings threaten to flatten him like pizza dough. He can’t be losing  _ that _ much blood, can he? If he doesn’t already die here, his mom is going to kill him.

He hits the edge of the dumpster. Paul rolls onto his back and a big ball of light assaults his eyes. 

“Oh, my fucking asjdfljk—” 

Paul’s heart stops. So  _ that’s _ what asjdfljk sounds like. He’s been wondering about that since he was 13 when the soulwords came in. He watches as the man shines the light over his body that still can’t decide if it wants to be invisible or not. 

“Why are you flickering? What’s up with the giraffe mask? Why are you on the  _ ground _ — _ ” _

“Hi!” Paul says. He coughs. “Was that your flower pot? Sorry about your flower pot.” His chest vibrates with each syllable he says. Blood pools up in his wound.  _ God, _ he can feel it. He’s so sensitive that he can feel the slightest difference in ounces. A trickle slides down the side of his chest and it just Keeps Going. “I’m bleeding profusely.”

“Holy shit?! Why didn’t you say that first? I can’t believe this. Who cares about my flower pot, of all things to say…”

Paul blinks. His mind dives underwater as the man rambles. He can’t follow that. The man talks too fast. He needs to breathe. What’s the exercise again? Seven, three, four? Four, three, seven? He lets the man slide an arm under his shoulders. 

“—get you to the hospital—”

“No!” Shit, no. Mom is at the hospital tonight. That is a bad, bad idea. Besides, they can’t afford that, ambulance, bills. Not this month. When does her shift end? What day is it? He needs to beat her home. “No. Please. Look, I just need a first aid kit. They’re only scratches, haha.” Just some cold water, soap, and an ace bandage to top it off. And rest. And some cookies. They say to eat after donating blood and Paul’s definitely donated blood. To the city streets.

“You said ‘profusely’.”

“Can a guy be dramatic? It’s a lyric from a song anyway; it was dumb,” Paul coughs and immediately regrets it as if one can regret an involuntary bodily reaction. The pain is very loud, a silent scream that only he can feel.

“No,” the man says bluntly. “What’s with the get-up?” He pulls Paul up.

“I’m  _ The Giraffe,  _ obviously. The superhero? Have you not heard of me?” Paul grabs onto the man’s apron. His soulmate smells like dirt. Mr. Flower Shop. It’s weird calling him Paul’s soulmate. His  _ soulmate. _

Mr. Flower Shop is silent. And then he says, “I have some healing herbs in my shop.”

Paul thinks the man may have rolled his eyes—the silence had a  _ tone _ —but he can’t see anything in the dark. 

Gravity is a bad idea. It takes his all to stand up, but even then, his weight is mostly supported by Mr. Flower Shop. His bowling ball heavy of a head lulls. He’s got maybe five inches on the guy, can’t find his shoulder so he rests his head against the other man’s head instead. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

“Of course,” Mr. Flower Shop says, placing a hand on Paul’s chest.

 

 

“That is a hole!”

Mr. Flower Shop’s observational skills transcends Earth.

Paul watches from the tabletop as the man 1) paces around the room, 2) stops to stare at his chest wound, 3) screams and 4) repeats 1-3 while escalating the pile of flowers and plants to a mountain by Paul’s head.

“That is a hole!” Mr. Flower Shop says again. “Scratch, my ass—”

“On the first date?” Paul quips, promptly ignored. Shame, he thinks it’s really clever.

“—You don’t know the meaning of the word! That is a whole new orifice!”

Paul snorts. His soulmate is so cute, but it’s really not the time. As funny as it is—and he means it, Mr. Flower Shop’s his best nighttime entertainment for days—it’d be a lot funnier if he wasn’t, uh, currently dying? Maybe? He feels a bit lightheaded. It’s not great. 

“How much longer until you do the thing?” he asks. “I’d like to meet you again after this, under better circumstances of course, but I can’t do that if I’m dead.” To put it bluntly.

Mr. Flower Shop stops in his tracks and oh, is his lip wobbling? Cute. Sure, Paul feels a little bit awkward now, but it’s nice that, despite only meeting five minutes ago, the man’s taken by him. Well, he thinks so anyway, but he is also losing blood at the moment. The man works in a flower shop. It’s not like he’s a sociopath. Selling flowers is a curious career choice for a sociopath. Paul wishes, from the bottom of his heart, that he can shut his own damn mind up. He offers a smile. 

“I’m kidding,” he says. “Sorry, I’m usually funnier than this. I won’t die. I trust you. You’re really great.” Mmm, word vomit. Love it.

“I’d be a lot better if you stop disappearing every five seconds,” Mr. Flower Shop grumbles. “Can you stop that?”

Paul sighs. “I don’t know. I already took meds for it so it should be fine. I don’t know what’s happening?”

“You take medication for invisibility?”

“Well,” Paul says. “It’s, uh. Linked to my anxiety. That’s what they say.” He looks down at his body and syncs with it, just because, opening his eyes when he’s gone and closing them when he’s not.

“Okay,” Mr. Flower Shop says. “Okay, I’ve got just the thing,” He disappears into an aisle and walks back out with a handful of flowers. “Take off that stupid mask and inhale this.”

“Uh,  _ no _ .”

His soulmate throws his hands up. “You keep saying no; do you want to die? Take it off!”

“I can’t compromise my identity! I’m the Giraffe. You can’t just  _ know _ who I am.”

Mr. Flower Shop leans down until his face is only centimeters away from Paul’s own. “I Am Your Soul Mate. And I currently have the authority on  _ your life. _ Take this off.” He pulls on Paul’s mask and lets go like an asshole. “And inhale these.” He throws the flowers at Paul’s face.

Paul twists his lips. “Do you have security cameras in this place? I’d really prefer it if nobody’s able to hack in and find video of me with my face out.”

“Are you for real? Are you actually a superhero?”

“I look like this  _ because _ I’m a superhero.”

Mr. Flower Shop moves his entire body to roll his eyes. “Fine. Keep the mask on. But I need you to huff those flowers.”

_ “Fine.” _ Paul pulls off the rubber strap and pushes the mask up to expose the lower half of his face. “Oh, woah,  _ woah. _ What? I don’t have muscles anymore?” It’s like, well, kind of.  _ Kind of _ being high, but it’s not like he’s floating ten feet off the ground. “What are these?”

“Damiana. It’s like a mild version of marijuana, but I amped up the relaxer part of it. That’ll loosen up your muscles and lower your heart rate to minimize the blood loss. Well, as minimal as I can get it  _ now.” _

“Woah, you’re a botano?”

His soulmate turns to face him while blindly malleting whatever it is in the ceramic bowl. “Duh. You know, you got me into this?  _ Sorry about your flower pot.  _ I got that when I was 14. I didn’t have a flower pot.”

Paul’s eyebrows scrunch up. “My first word was  _ Hi.” _

“Yeah. Hi. Was that your flower pot? Sorry about your flower pot. The whole shabang across my back. I was so excited to meet you tonight and you might actually die.”

It’s a very big frown that sits on his face. Paul throws his flowers at it. 

“Don’t insult my soulmate like that. I believe in him and you should to.”

They fall silent. Paul watches as his soulmate smear paste over the scrapes and cuts, hissing at the cold. The man knows what he’s doing, judging by the minimal pain Paul feels. His hands aren’t as red anymore. It must be terrifying. Paul doesn’t know which is worse. Dying right when you meet your soulmate? Or being the one who has to save him? Probably the latter. That’s a lot of pressure after all. Paul’s just lying here.

He scans the room, looking for more clues about his soulmate as the man stays occupied. After thorough inspection, Mr. Flower Shop is Ollie,  _ Flowers by Ollie  _ across the front window. Ollie, Ollie, Ollie. It’s so cute that Paul forgives him for the  _ Oh, my fucking asjdfljk _ on his inner thigh. He can’t find the more herbal looking plants in the front of the shop. It isn’t a medicinal place. Ollie isn’t a medic. He’s probably just getting by with his knowledge of plants. Paul’s stomach twists in guilt. 

“Hey, are you still awake for me?” Ollie asks softly. At Paul’s nod, he says, “Lift.”

He slides the ace bandage under Paul’s back and wraps it over the wound, creating a triangle across his chest. “Tell me if it’s too tight.”

“It’s fine, Ollie,” Paul answers. Ollie’s hands are big. He follows their outline, from the trapezoid back of the hand to his knuckles to his fingernails. Short. Stubby. “Can I call you Ollie?”

“You don’t have the privilege yet,” Ollie says. “It’s Oliver. How about you?”

Paul licks his lips and makes a note to stop by CVS for some chapstick. “You don’t have the privilege yet,” he repeats, smirking at Ollie’s frown. “How do I know you won’t run to the presses?”

Ollie rolls his eyes. “You’re not front-page material.”

“Hey, they might squeeze me in next to the sports column. Can’t be too careful.”

Ollie scans his body, looking unimpressed. “Looks like you weren’t careful at all,” he says, but Paul spots his lip resisting to pull away into a smile. 

Paul laughs. “Okay, please stop roasting me.” 

“I’ll be right back,” Ollie says. He disappears into the backroom. 

Paul sits up on the table and shivers. What time is it? He looks around for the clock and jumps off the table when he spots it.  _ Shit.  _ His MOM. He has to do without his shirt; Ollie had to cut it off, but he can disguise the blood stains on his jacket with some dirt. He scoops some from a pot and smears it over the patches. It’ll still raise some questions, but they’ll be the wrong ones. 

He grabs paper and a pencil from behind the counter and scribbles a message.  _ Sorry, gotta go. Here’s my number for EMERGENCIES THX. your love, THE Giraffe :) _

That should be fine. 

Paul zips up his jacket, marveling at how normal his body feels. Perhaps, he should recruit Ollie to his team like all the other superheroes. He hops over the counter, takes one more look around the shop, and disappears into the night.

 

 

He adds  _ Flowers by Ollie _ to his patrol.


End file.
